


Synthetic Solitude

by The_Epitome_of_Pretense



Series: The Sole Saga [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Epitome_of_Pretense/pseuds/The_Epitome_of_Pretense
Summary: Nick insists that he is doing fine after Sole left, but Ellie knows better.





	Synthetic Solitude

Nick had lost track of the days since Sole left. He stopped counting after a week. He knew that if he sat down and thought about it, he would be able to remember how much time had passed, even down to the second. But he flat did not want to. 

He stood in front of the file cabinet, staring at the over-stuffed folders. He knew he was looking for something, but he could not remember what. He sighed and closed the drawer. Ellie would be back from lunch soon. If he didn’t pull himself together, she would never let him hear the end of it. 

He returned to his desk and sank into the chair, absent-mindedly looking over the scattering of papers. It was a mess, even for him. Just one more thing to fix. 

He picked up one of the stacks and set it on the row of books that lined the upper portion of the old roll-top desk. The added weight shifted the books; the rusted coffee grinder he used as a bookend toppled to the floor, taking some of the volumes with it. Before he could catch it, the stack of papers slid down and scattered. He pressed a palm to his brow.

“Of course,” he muttered. 

He gathered the papers without bothering to sort them. When he went to pick up the books, he found that one of them had fallen open. That was invitation enough for him; he certainly wasn't getting anything else done. He took it and began to read. 

_ Though thou loved her as thyself, _

_ As a self of purer clay, _

_ Though her parting dims the day, _

He snapped the book closed. Did he really expect a poem to get his mind back on track? He shelved it and slumped back into his chair, put his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. 

He wished things had gone differently—not for the first time. Sole had been in such a hurry to leave after what happened, he barely had time to get a word in. If she had just stayed, he was sure they could have worked it out. He hadn’t realized how nice it was to have someone around who knew what he was talking about when he quoted the classics—much less someone who could finish the quote for him. The Agency was too damn quiet now. 

He had no right to miss her that much. He was letting his feelings get the better of him; why couldn’t he just put the whole issue to rest? He hated how he couldn’t think straight, how every task that he set out to do disappeared amid memories that wouldn’t leave him alone. And he worried; he worried, now more than ever, that he might forget about Jennifer.

He was the only one left on earth who still remembered her. He couldn’t act like that didn’t matter.

The door opened, rattling him from his thoughts. He snatched up one of the papers and tried to look busy. 

Ellie shut the door behind her and hung up her coat. 

“Any headway on the missing husband case?” she said. 

That’s what he was doing at the file cabinet—he was looking for his notes on the case. 

“No, not yet,” he said. 

He put down the paper he was pretending to read and went back to thumbing through the folders. 

“I’ll bet he’s got a mistress somewhere,” she said. “Probably decided to spend a long weekend with her.”

“I doubt it. Any scumbag looking to string two women along would be more careful than that.”

“Ten caps says it’s a mistress.”

“You’re on.”

At last he found the sheet of notes; he pulled it out of the folder and looked it over. Halfway down the page, he realized that he hadn’t read a single word. He let out a frustrated breath and started again from the top.

“Hey,” Ellie said, her voice quiet, “are you okay?”

“Are you ever going to give it a rest with that?”

“I just want to know what happened.”

“Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“If you tell me what’s going on, I might be able to help. Even if I’m just a shoulder to cry on.”

“You know that’s physically impossible for me.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“You know what? Fine. You just keep it up with that Stoic Tough Guy routine. See where that gets you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You come on.”

“That’s real mature.”

“Well, I’m not the one pretending that nothing’s wrong. We’ve barely made any progress on a single case, and you’re over here acting like this is business as usual. You’re off your game and you know it.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

She shook her head.

“Stubborn jackass…” she muttered.

She settled herself at her own desk and began sorting through a stack of papers. Her shoulders looked tense, her posture rigid. The sight made him more than a little guilty. After all, she just wanted to help.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not saying you’re right, but if there was something going on,” he said, “it’s good to know I’ve got a friend like you to rely on.”

She huffed a sigh. 

“Thanks,” she said. “Now let me work, will you? This office isn’t going to organize itself.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “I’m going to go ask around Mr. Scumbag’s neighborhood a bit. See what turns up. I might be gone a few days.”

“Be careful out there. I don’t want to have to send someone after you again.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

He clapped her shoulder on his way to the door. He resolved to be in better spirits by the time he returned. A little hands-on investigating would be just the thing to get him back on track, he was sure of it.

He took his hat from the nail by the door. He paused before stepping out; Sole’s black bowler still hung next to it. The inclination struck him to bring it along. He might pass her on the road or bump into her at a town; maybe he would just ask around and deliver it to her himself. His fingers brushed over the dark felt. 

He shook his head and started for the city gate. If she really wanted to see him, she knew where to find him. Maybe some time apart would cool her jets a bit. He had tried his best to let her down easy. What else could he have done? 

A vision of her tear-filled eyes flashed through his mind, leaving a pang of guilt in its wake. He knew what he could have done. He never should have let her get so close in the first place. But when she touched him, when she held him, when she was so close that he could hear her catch her breath—he couldn’t help but drop every last defense he had. He could still feel her hand on his neck, the gentle touch on his lip, the searing heat of it all. He remembered how desperately he wanted to jump up from the desk and wrap his arms around that little waist of hers. To finally learn if her lips were as soft as they looked. 

One of the mechanisms in his chest began to tap painfully. If he didn’t calm himself down, the coolant would do it for him. He took a deep breath and walked a little slower. 

It had been eleven days, eighteen hours, forty-five minutes, and three seconds. 

And he was fooling himself.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand I'm quoting "Give all to Love" (Emerson) again. I really need to find some more thematically appropriate poems to reference.


End file.
